


Haunting Brooklyn

by emluv



Series: Secrets, Lies, and Spies [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Spoilers, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1917690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emluv/pseuds/emluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes part ways on the Brooklyn Bridge, Barnes continues on to Brooklyn. But what sorts of memories does Brooklyn hold for a man whose mind is so shattered?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The sixth story in a series that will follow various Avengers and agents of SHIELD through the fallout of the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier and the first season of Marvel's Agents of SHIELD. Contains spoilers for both the film and the series.

Brooklyn is a revelation.

 

It’s not that it triggers his memories. It isn’t like that. He doesn’t cross over the bridge and have it all come flooding back in an instant. There’s no pounding in his head, no flashes of memory jarring him like they have in recent weeks. Nothing in his mind reacts specifically to setting foot in the borough where James Barnes grew up.

 

Instead, he simply knows. Knows where he’s going, knows where each neighborhood melds into the next, knows how to navigate over toward the naval yard, and that the Walt Whitman Library on St. Edwards Street used to be called something else. None of it comes to him, it’s just _there_ , waiting for him to tap into it. A few buildings look familiar, older structures, landmarks that have survived as they were, maybe with an addition or some minor repairs. Others are clearly different, more recent, but they don’t throw him. He doesn’t remember having a life on these streets, can’t imagine himself into his surroundings, but the places themselves – those he hasn’t lost.

 

If the streets are the same, the people are a strange mix of familiar and new. Walking along, he can see it, hear it. Gentrification. He understands the term, though he couldn’t say where he heard it. Brooklyn seems a patchwork of puzzle pieces – blocks of young professional families with money, just not enough for Manhattan; ethnic pockets where the rhythms of language and accents meld together, Spanish, Italian, Yiddish, Chinese, Korean, a slew of Eastern European dialects that put him on edge; artsy looking kids with tight pants and thick-framed glasses and cardigans like grandpas used to wear in his day; Hasidim with long beards and black suits, the women in modest dresses and shoes with straps. Everyone rubbing up against each other, and not just the residents. Streets filled with old fashioned mom-and-pop shops, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and everyday kinds of businesses abut blocks of the shiny chain stores he’s seen in malls, with people of every sort making their way through the doors.

 

Brooklyn is in transition, the way he’s in transition, all the new things layering on top of the old, and he begins to think maybe he’s made a good choice. He thinks he can be calm here, can make a plan, learn what it means to be one of these people going about their lives, no missions or mandates. He thinks maybe, despite the connection to Barnes’s childhood, to Steve, and to the past, that this might be he last place Hydra would search for him. They’ll be expecting violence, anger, revenge. He remembers how easily Steve found him at the site of the fire; it’s the sort of scenario Hydra will anticipate since he failed to report. Lashing out, creating havoc, seeking retribution. Instead he will be ordinary, he will acclimate. He will remain the ghost he was meant to be.

 

It’s nearly dark when he finds a quiet street, a little dirtier and more run down than most, with an empty building – an older brownstone – adjacent to an alley. It’s boarded up tight, a realtor’s sign posted on the front, but he follows the alley, locates the fire escape, and works his way up to the roof. There’s an attic access, also firmly locked down, but that’s good because it means he’ll have the place to himself, entrance too hard for the average homeless person in search of a place to squat. He, of course, has no such difficulty.

 

Inside it’s dim, the stagnant air stale smelling, but it’s also dry and relatively clean, as if the residents have only recently moved out. The floors have been divided up, and he peers inside several of the apartments, finding nothing more than empty, abandoned spaces with shuttered windows and disconnected cable wires, some of the doors to rooms or closets missing or removed from hinges and propped against walls. Both the electricity and the water are off, but he’d expected nothing more. Still, it’s peaceful and safe enough. It will enable him to get off the streets at night without spending money. He’s become self-conscious about where he’s acquired his funds, which means making an attempt at thrift until he can come up with an alternative to lifting wallets.

 

Choosing a small room with several entry points and a window facing the alley, he drops his pack in a corner and begins pulling out provisions for the night – a mostly full bottle of water, the remains of the sandwich he purchased earlier, his flashlight, a gun – and arranges everything to one side. Sitting on the floor, he leans against the wall beside his bag to eat and plan. He feels the blanks in his knowledge of current events, of the last seventy years. So much time spent in stasis, he has missed out on the world, only learning as much as was necessary for him to navigate the parameters of a mission. He knows how to use computers and the internet but not the names of all the presidents since the war. If knowledge is power, ignorance is a series of landmines. The wrong thing said to the wrong person might lead to questions he cannot afford. He needs to learn things – not just how to blend in, to function without handlers – but information, facts.

 

It’s still early when he finishes eating, but he barely slept the previous night and then there was the tension of the meeting with Steve, and he’s walked all day. He stretches out on the floor, angling to use his bag as a pillow, drawing the gun in so it’s at the ready, and closes his eyes. He’s been sleeping hard, on the ground outdoors more often than not, but the sudden sense of déjà vu comes not from the past weeks but from some other time, and unlike the painful jolt of other memories, it seeps into him like fog. He imagines a faint wheezing snore just above and behind him as he turns on his side, trying to get comfortable, and he falls asleep to the familiar sound of Steve breathing as it echoes faintly through time.

 

~*~

 

The outside of the library might look mostly the same, new name aside, but the inside has definitely changed. He can’t remember the last time he actually went into a library, but he’s pretty certain they just had books and newspapers, maybe a few magazines. Technology seems to have taken over since then. There’s no sign of a card catalog, but a bank of computer terminals sits where he thinks it once was. Next to the check out desk are more computers, with a sign above indicating you can check out books yourself. Still more computers line the rear wall of the main room, several people seated in front of them. When he wanders closer, he can see two of them are using the internet, while the third appears to be typing something.

 

He knows you need a library card to take books home, and he suspects he needs I.D. to get one so it’s out of the question, but no one ever used to care if you read the books and newspapers in the library itself. He wonders if you need a card to access the computers, or if maybe they charge a fee. It would be good to be able to use the internet sometimes.

 

Deciding it can’t hurt anything to ask, he makes his way over to the information desk. A dark-skinned woman with very straight white teeth smiles as he approaches. Her hair is arranged in tiny braids all over her head with small shells woven into them, and he’s tempted to ask how she got the shells to stay, but then he’s never understood how dames got their hair to do all the fancy things they do.

 

“How can I help you?” she asks. Her accent isn’t one he recognizes. Maybe a little bit French, but not quite. It sounds like music.

 

“Hi,” he says. “How do the computers work?” he asks. “Do you have to pay? Or do you need a card?”

 

Her smile broadens. “No, nothing like that,” she says. “The computers are free to use for all library patrons, whether or not you have a library card. You need to be eighteen or older for the ones here in the main room, and we do ask that you limit yourself to one hour per day, because we only have the four terminals and many patrons who wish to use them.” She reaches to one side and picks up a clipboard. “There’s a sign up sheet for each terminal,” she says, “and you can see when they’re available. Just sign your name to whatever hour you’re interested in.”

 

“Thank you,” he says softly. “Are they all hooked up to the internet?”

 

“Yes. And they have most professional programs you might need if you’re working on a resume or presentation. We do charge if you need to print,” she says. “Ten cents a page. Black and white only. But you can always save a file and take it to a copy shop if you need color.”

 

“Okay, thanks for your help.”

 

“You’re very welcome. If you’d like more information about the library, there’s a tour at ten-thirty,” she says, pointing toward a sign near the doors. “Meets right there.”

 

“Do you give it?” he asks.

 

“Oh no, I stay here behind my desk,” she says with a smile. “But Hannah’s giving the tour today. She knows everything about the library.”

 

He manages a smile, the muscles of his face feeling stiff. The library isn’t very big, just the one floor, and it seems like he can see most of it from where he’s standing, but she’s been nice and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. “Maybe I’ll check it out,” he says. It’s not like he’s got much else to do.

 

It’s past ten already, so he takes a closer look at some of the computer terminals, reading the instructions for the ones that let you search for books, then wanders back to where the tour starts. Hannah turns out to be a youngish woman with a shy smile, but she doesn’t seem to mind that he’s the only one there for her tour and, as promised, she knows a lot of things about the library. Some of them don’t really apply to him, like the rules for the children’s section, but she points out where the newspapers are and that the older ones can be accessed by computer, and explains how he can request books be delivered from other branches if they don’t have something he’s looking for. She also lets him know how easy it is to get a library card, confirming that they require some form of I.D. He just nods.

 

After the tour, he settles at a desk with the newspaper and carefully combs through both the national and international reports. It is like coming into the middle of a story, everything already in progress, nothing making sense. Some areas of the world are mentioned often, others not at all. He works his way through several papers, but the information feels like a jumble. His attention returns over and over to the articles about the strife in Ukraine, and the Russian intervention. He cannot tell if it’s important because he knows he spent time there, or because the current events have their own meaning.

 

~*~

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky starts settling into the neighborhood and develops a routine, much to his own surprise.

Hunger finally drives him out of the library mid-afternoon. He finds a small corner deli a few blocks away and thinks perhaps it’s an old place, somewhere Bucky Barnes might have been, his feet seeming to lead him there by habit. A long deli counter runs the length of one side, with a menu and prices written on the chalk board lining the wall behind it. The rest of the space is occupied by several aisles of shelves offering an array of staples, the types of things you’d find a greater selection of in one of the large grocery or drug stores, but might run into the local shop for if you were running low or had forgotten an item or two. In the back there are several refrigerated units with milk and eggs and cartons of juice along with an assortment of soda and bottled water.

 

He still has his water bottle in his bag, having refilled it in the restroom at the library, so he stands and peers into the deli counter at the different kinds of meats and cheese and various salads, as well as a selection of individually sized entrees and some ethnic foods he’s not sure he recognizes. A plump-faced older woman smiles at him from behind the counter, her greying blond hair pulled back in a tidy knot and her pale green dress covered by an enormous apron, and waits patiently for him to make his decision.

 

Eventually he orders a turkey sandwich with an assortment of extras that he’s learned tend to be included in the price, like lettuce and tomato and pickles.

 

“You want the pickles on the sandwich or on the side, honey?” the woman asks, scribbling on a pad. Her accent is pure Brooklyn, the first he’s heard since arriving, and something warm and comforting settles in his chest.

 

“Could I have both?” he asks softly.

 

She glances up and winks at him. “No problem. Anything else? Some potato salad? Maybe macaroni? I can give you a free sample of each if you want to try,” she adds with a little nod. “That way you know for next time.”

 

He thinks she must be taking in his older clothes, the growth of beard, the too-large duffel clutched in one hand. It’s a few days since he’s showered, and he knows he must be starting to resemble the other homeless people walking the streets, but her tone is warm and friendly, holding no judgment. “Yes, please, I’d like to try them,” he tells her.

 

“All right, then. Just be a minute. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” She tears the sheet off her order pad and drops it on the counter behind her, then she pulls the large roasted turkey breast from the display and heads over to the shiny slicer.

 

While he waits, he wanders around the small shop. He finds a display of office supplies, mostly pens and pencils and a few kinds of writing paper, some envelopes and notebooks. He examines the notebooks and finds one about the size of a paperback book, with soft covers and lined pages. It will just fit in his inside jacket pocket. He takes that and a package of three blue ballpoint pens, and carries them up to the counter when he hears the women call out that his sandwich is ready.

 

“Here you go,” she tells him, passing a brown bag over the counter. “Take that to the front and my husband will ring you up. Enjoy!”

 

“Thank you,” he says, reaching for the bag. It feels heavy and he thinks it must be a pretty large sandwich. He smiles at her and heads up to pay.

 

The woman’s husband is maybe a few years older than she – sixty-ish, he thinks – tall and very thin with a slight curve to his shoulders and thinning salt-and-pepper hair over bushy black brows. He has the same Brooklyn accent as his wife and warm brown eyes, and he makes perfect change in his head without bothering with the cash register. “There you go, son. Have a good lunch,” he says as he adds a small stack of napkins and a plastic fork to the bag.

 

“Thank you,” he replies, already thinking he will come back again. Something about the place is soothing.

 

There’s a park not too far away. It’s enough past the standard lunch hour but before school lets out that he easily locates a vacant bench under a budding tree and settles with his duffel stashed between his feet. Reaching into the deli bag, he discovers not just his enormous sandwich and the sampler-sized salads, but a banana as well. He’s certain he wasn’t charged for it, and he doesn’t recall any mention on the menu of a piece of fruit being included. Between that, the small salads, and the large pickle wrapped in wax paper, he has enough that he can save some for later.

 

He eats methodically, napkins spread across his lap, and tries to come up with a reason for the deli lady to have given him extra food. She seemed kind, but she must see so many people every day, and he doesn’t think she can afford to give away things to everyone. Perhaps it was because he’s a new customer. A way to bring him back. If that’s the case, he thinks it has worked. The food is tasty – he particularly likes the potato salad – and reasonably priced, and the deli is conveniently near to both the library and the building where he’s staying.

 

~*~

 

He falls into a routine over the next few days. It’s strange, knowing each morning what he plans to do, and oddly satisfying. He starts off in a coffee shop a few blocks from where he’s spending his nights, because they have a public restroom with a door that locks where he can wash up a bit before ordering breakfast. He’s always careful to clean up after himself with paper towels so as not to give anyone an excuse to complain. Then he has his breakfast sandwich to go, finishing it just as he reaches the library, around the time they open the doors.

 

Once inside, he signs up for a computer terminal the hour before the noon rush, and spends the morning until then reading through the day’s newspapers, carefully jotting down anything he needs to look up in his notebook so that he can run a search once he gets online. By about two he’s ready for lunch, for which he returns to the deli. He keeps trying different sandwiches, and now he orders some sort of side salad on his own, but the mysterious pieces of fruit keep appearing in his bag, one day an apple, a couple of times oranges, and on Friday there’s also an oatmeal raisin cookie. Every afternoon he tells himself he should say something, but he’s afraid if he does that the extra food will stop, and while he feels like he’s getting away with something he shouldn’t, he can’t quite bring himself to risk it. But he makes it a point to be as polite as he knows how, and he listens when they speak to the other customers, so that within a few days he’s learned the woman manning the deli counter is Ella, and her husband is Joseph, and they own the store, which used to belong to Joseph’s grandfather.

 

After lunch in the park, he returns to the library for an hour or two and reads other things – generally magazines. He’d like to read some of the books – he thinks he used to like to read – but they’re too long for him to finish in a single afternoon and he can’t borrow them, so he focuses on anything that’s short and looks interesting. He reads until closing time, then wanders the streets for a while until he’s ready to head back to the empty brownstone.

 

On Friday afternoon, he approaches the lady with the shells in her hair again – Tamara, he’s heard someone call her – to find out what library branches are open on the weekend. He already knows that this branch will be closed.

 

“None open Sunday, I’m afraid,” she tells him, and he knows by her tone of voice that she’s unhappy with the situation. “Too many budget cuts. But we’ve a few open Saturdays, at least part of the day.” She pulls out a sheet of paper with a map of the area libraries and circles two with a red felt-tip pen. “These are the closest ones. You willing to take a subway, you have a few more options.”

 

“No, these should be plenty. Thank you,” he says, peering at the map, trying to memorize the locations.

 

“Here, you go ahead and take this, dear,” she says, pushing the map at him. “That’s what it’s here for.”

 

“Thanks. I’d probably have forgotten where they are,” he says, taking the map and folding it carefully. The truth is he’s not sure if he would or wouldn’t have. His memory is a strange place these days.

 

That night he tries to think of all the things normal people do on weekends, when they don’t go to work. Not that he has a job during the week, though that’s something he knows he needs to figure out, but he suspects there are other things he should be doing, things that might help him become a real person. He tries to remember the sorts of things James Barnes might have done, before he went to war, but the attempt just makes his head hurt. He sleeps poorly and wakes abruptly at one point, already sitting straight up. He can tell he was screaming, his throat raw, the sound still echoing off the bare walls, but he can’t remember what he was dreaming. Instead of trying to go back to sleep, he wanders the empty rooms of the building, his thoughts drifting to Steve. He wonders what he’s doing and if anyone is watching his back.

 

Saturday he goes to the deli a little early because the nearest library opens at one p.m. and he’s decided he should eat lunch before he goes rather than waste any of his precious few hours of reading time. Instead of Joseph, there’s a kid behind the register, maybe high school aged, but he can see Joseph in the back, stocking shelves, as he makes his way over to the deli counter to place his order. There’s a woman ahead of him, so he waits while Ella helps her and asks if she has special plans for the weekend. When it’s his turn, Ella smiles and makes his sandwich – chicken salad this time, with a side of coleslaw – and tells him to have a good day. He thinks she must know he hasn’t any special plans. When he opens his bag, he finds an extra pickle and a banana.

 

Sunday he walks the streets, looking in windows, seeing what other people seem to be doing. He passes a laundromat and it occurs to him he should probably wash his clothes soon. This leads to an entire train of thought, all about the types of chores people do. He doesn’t have an apartment to clean, or a kitchen to stock with groceries, but it still feels like an accomplishment, just realizing those are things people need to take care of in their non-working hours. He also discovers there are shelters for the homeless, places where they can check in for the night and sleep for free. But the idea of sleeping in a room with a group of strangers makes him nervous. Bad enough to have nightmares when he’s sleeping alone. Also, he’s carrying around a lot of weapons, and he thinks a shelter would not appreciate him bringing them in with him.

 

The next week passes much as the first did. He fills pages and pages of his notebook with information on an array of subjects. Sometimes the words and phrases he jots down lead to complicated internet searches over a period of days, where he reads and researches until he begins to gain an understanding. The changes to the map of the world prompt particularly involved searches: Israel and Palestine, Bosnia, Croatia, and the Czech Republic. The Berlin Wall. Other subjects puzzle and concern him: global warming, inexplicable gun violence where kids go to school and shoot their classmates. Sometimes he feels there is no hope of understanding, no matter how much he reads.

 

He searches for anything that could possibly be linked to Hydra, things less obvious than the weak coverage of the government’s investigation into SHIELD or the brief mentions of military intervention at various bases. When he finds a report of a suspicious fire in an old bank building in D.C. buried on page twelve, he reads it carefully and chronicles the details in his notebook, including a small star at the top of the page. He never knew the address of the temporary Hydra base where he was prepped for his last mission – was delivered there by handlers – but the description is too similar for it to be a coincidence. He wonders if Steve has gone back to Washington. He has no way of knowing who else might be involved, but if anyone is going after Hydra, he imagines Steve is leading the charge.

 

He finds a cheap hotel and checks in for one night. It’s strange to sleep in a real bed again after so many nights on the floor of the brownstone, and he barely manages a few hours. But in the morning he showers and washes his hair, standing under the meager spray of water until it turns cold, then dresses in his last set of clean clothes and takes the rest to the laundromat he’d discovered. He buys little packets of soap and reads the instructions for the machine, then sits in one of the molded plastic chairs in the center of the room and tries not to twitch every time someone comes or goes. But it’s relatively quiet, and by the time his washer rattles to a stop he’s the only one there. He transfers everything to a dryer, then kills time by reading the notices on the small cork board by the door. There’s a flyer for a local church bazaar, faded ads for a kitchen table someone’s trying to sell and another for a black-and-white printer, and several sheets where people offer up their services for hire – two babysitters and someone who cleans apartments – with email addresses for more information. He thinks he could do something like that to earn money, though his skill set is hardly one he could post on a public bulletin board.

 

Two days later, he arrives at the deli to find it closed, a handwritten sign taped to the glass inside the front door: _Family Emergency. Will reopen tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience._ He leans in close to peer into the darkened shop, but everything looks normal, no signs of damage or a struggle or anything suspicious. He wonders what a family emergency might be. Someone sick? And what family? Ella or Joseph or someone else? He’s learned they have a daughter who lives in Philadelphia with her husband and little boy; maybe something happened to one of them. But that seems too far to go and also be back to open the store tomorrow.

 

He wanders off, distracted. Eventually he ends up in a fast food place. He gets a burger and fries and sits at one of the tables and worries about Ella and Joseph.

 

~*~

 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Barnes begins to see a little good in the world around him, again, much to his own surprise.

First thing the next morning, he goes straight to the deli. He doesn’t have a watch, just knows it’s early, not even light yet, but somehow it’s still a surprise when he gets there and they’re closed. The sign says they open at seven, and he’s almost certain it’s more like six. He’s debating between waiting and going to find breakfast before coming back, when he hears the metallic bang of a door shutting somewhere around the corner. Heading in that direction, he sees a dairy truck pull out onto the street from behind the deli, and as he nears the rear of the building, he overhears the sound of spirited bickering.

 

Rounding the side of the deli, he finds Ella and Joseph arguing in the alley, the back door to the shop propped open by a couple of milk crates. Ella clutches a dolly, trying to keep it away from Joseph, who keeps attempting to tug it out of her grip with a single hand, his left arm incapacitated by a sling strapping it firmly to his chest. The family emergency from the previous day suddenly becomes obvious, and he doesn’t need to listen to their fight to identify the problem.

 

“Can I help?” he asks, stepping forward.

 

It’s clear neither of them had seen him approach by the way they spin abruptly in his direction. Ella releases the dolly and it rocks back and forth before deciding to remain upright, while Joseph steps instinctively in front of her before he recognizes who spoke. Even once he’s focused, he shakes his head brusquely. “We’re fine, thank you.”

 

But Ella’s expression has brightened and she quickly steps back around Joseph. “Oh, it’s you!” she says. “Thank you, yes, we could really use some help with everything.”

 

“Ella!” Joseph starts, but she cuts him off with a stern look, her eyebrows arched high, gaze piercing.

 

“No,” she says sharply. “He’s offered and we’re going to accept. How do you think you’re going to manage with that arm?” she demands.

 

Joseph looks disgruntled, but he nods, lips pressed together firmly as if he’s physically holding back his response.

 

Ella nods as well, looking relieved. She turns back. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we ever really introduced ourselves, all the times you’ve come into the shop,” she says gently. “I’m Ella Gaspar. My husband, Joseph. And you are?”

 

He stares at her for a moment. He doesn’t know the last time someone asked his name. Steve never asked, simply told him. _Bucky?_ … _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ No one else has asked. No one else has wanted to know.

 

She’s waiting. He needs to answer before she thinks there’s something wrong, before she decides she’s made a mistake, being kind to him.

 

“James,” he says softly. “My name is James Barnes.” It feels odd. He’s been writing it on the computer sign-up sheet every day at the library, but this is the first time he’s said the words out loud. They still don’t feel like they belong to him.

 

Ella’s smile broadens slightly. “It is good to meet you officially, James. Thank you for offering to help. It’s just, Joseph fell yesterday,” she says, pointing needlessly toward her husband. “The doctor told him no lifting anything heavy, not with the cast. But the deliveries come and we need to get everything inside and put away.”

 

He can see now, past the open door, that there are more boxes just inside, lining the hallway leading into the store. “I can help with that,” he tells her.

 

“Thank you, James,” she repeats. Turning toward Joseph, she waves him inside. “Go on and get everything ready to open. I can show James where to put things.”

 

Joseph looks hesitant, but she waves him away again, and he nods and shuffles carefully into the building past the boxes.

 

“Stubborn man,” Ella says under her breath once he’s gone. “Here, I’ll show you,” she continues,  heading toward the door herself. “I could do it, but I don’t have his strength and it would take me far too long. I’d never finish before opening.”

 

He follows her inside and nods his understanding as she quickly outlines the task. It’s simply a matter of muscling the last of the deliveries inside, unpacking them either onto shelves or into the walk-in refrigerator, and breaking down the boxes for the trash. She shows him how to place the newer stock behind the existing cans and boxes so that the older items get used first.

 

“You can put your bag there if you like,” she tells him, indicating one corner of the back room where a coat rack keeps company with a small desk. “No one will touch it. I’m going to go out front with Joseph to get ready to open. Just ask if you have any questions, and be sure to come forward when you’re done,” she says. “I’ll make you breakfast on the house.” Then she vanishes through a swinging door that leads into the shop proper. He watches her go, astonished by the level of trust she’s showing him.

 

It seems logical to start with the cold things, so he begins by putting the dairy deliveries away, then moves on to the less perishable items. There aren’t that many boxes, really. Presumably different things get delivered each day. He stocks the shelves swiftly, then uses the box cutter to flatten the cartons and pile them out of the way against one wall. The clock above the door reads a quarter to seven by the time he finishes. He drags all the broken down cardboard out into the alley and tosses it into the dumpster. Then he goes back inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The shelves are neatly stocked, the floor free of the earlier clutter, and he feels useful, aware suddenly how inactive he has been the past few weeks without a mission or any real occupation. His reading is important, but he is accustomed to being far more physical when not held in stasis, and it appears his body requires more exercise than simply wandering the neighborhood.

 

After retrieving his bag, he slowly pushes through the door into the deli, listening to determine where Ella and Joseph are. The most distinctive sounds originate by the deli counter, so he turns in that direction, finding Ella organizing the work space behind the display case. She looks up with a smile as soon as he rounds the last aisle of shelves.

 

“Do you know what you’d like?” she asks, pointing up toward the breakfast menu behind her. “The grill’s heated, so anything you want.”

 

His gaze flickers from the list of choices back to her warm expression. “Do you make breakfast sandwiches?” he asks cautiously. “With eggs and cheese?”

 

“Of course,” she says, moving briskly to start taking out ingredients. “Bacon, sausage, or ham on that?”

 

He blinks. “Bacon, please.”

 

She sets several strips sizzling on the hot surface behind her, then turns to whisk eggs in a small bowl before adding them along side the bacon. “I have bagels, toast, English muffins,” she says over her shoulder.

 

He thinks he must be getting better at making choices when he automatically requests a bagel. Or maybe it’s just that he’s been eating enough breakfast sandwiches to know what he likes.

 

“There’s coffee at the end of the counter if you’d like some,” Ella says. “Or help yourself to juice from the fridge if you’d rather.”

 

There’s a dizzying array of fruity drinks: grapefruit, passion fruit, cranberry. By the time he’s decided on the familiarity of a small bottle of orange juice, Ella’s come around the counter with a wonderfully aromatic paper bag and is tucking napkins into it. She hands it over with a grateful smile. “Thank you again for your help, James.”

 

He takes the bag and adds the juice. He can see there’s something in it besides the sandwich, hiding beneath the napkins. “You don’t have to…” he starts, then shakes his head, the words coming less smoothly than he’d like. “All the fruit. And the cookie. I can pay for this,” he says, glancing up.

 

Ella’s smile softens into something he can’t quite identify. “Joseph and I, we used to have a son,” she says quietly. “David. He was a soldier. Afghanistan,” she says, and he nods, because he’s learned about the war in his reading. Ella shakes her head. “He didn’t come back. So.” She shrugs. “When I see someone who looks like they’re home from serving our country, I try to help a little. You… I don’t like to pry, but I can tell… You have that look in your eyes. You’re were a soldier, and it’s left scars,” she says. “So many good young men come home and have trouble getting back on their feet, finding work. I just try to help where I can. For David.”

 

He looks down at the bag clutched in his hand. He wants to say she’s wrong, that he’s not one of those good men back from serving his country, but he can’t bring himself to correct her mistake. “Thank you,” he says instead, voice a little hoarse.

 

“You’re welcome, James. And thank you, too.”

 

He nods, shifting toward the door as he does. He leaves through the back, exiting out into the alley, his mind whirling.

 

At lunchtime, he goes somewhere else.

 

~*~

 

That night, he sits in the vacant brownstone, back propped against the wall, staring at the faint shadows thrown across the floor where light seeps around the edges of the shutters, and thinks about what Ella told him. It scares him, people thinking they know him. Steve thinks he knows him, and now this woman with her story about her son lost to war, she believes she knows him, too, if only a little. She sees glimpses of something familiar when she looks at him, but how can they be true? How can she know him when he doesn’t even know himself?

 

Then he thinks of all the boxes he unpacked that morning, and Joseph with his cast and sling. He tries to picture Ella lifting the crates and putting away all of the deliveries, and he can’t see it.

 

It’s still dark when he goes out the next morning, at least as dark as it ever gets in New York. The alley is empty, quiet for long minutes while he waits, propped against the brick wall that makes up the rear of the deli, bag securely tucked behind his feet. Then a bakery truck rumbles down the street, brakes squeaking as it slows to make the turn into the alley. As if it was a signal, the back door to the deli opens and Ella emerges, hair tugged back in loose ponytail, an apron already over her navy sweater and grey slacks. She turns toward him and in the moment before she sees him, her face looks tired, worn, resigned. Then her eyes settle on him where he’s straightened away from the wall, and her entire expression grows lighter.

 

“Thank you,” she says, so quietly he knows she’s afraid of scaring him away.

 

“Go on in,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

 

Because he’s come early, he finishes well before they’re ready to open the shop. He takes his bag and goes inside to let Ella know he’s done, and finds Joseph waiting for him.

 

“Thank you for coming again,” he says, his body held stiffly. “I didn’t think you would. It’s hard for me, to let someone help us. We’ve always made our own way, you understand?”

 

He nods. “Me, too,” he says, though he can’t be sure it’s true. But he thinks he knows what Joseph means.

 

“You seem like a nice man. I wish we could hire you to help unload the deliveries,” he says. “But we have the one boy coming on the weekends and a few hours after school during the week, and we just can’t afford to take on another employee. But…” He hesitates. “I don’t want to offend you,” he continues. “Please, feel free to refuse if I’m wrong. But I think maybe you could use a place to stay? We have a spare room with its own entrance just upstairs,” he goes on quickly. “Not an apartment, nothing so big. We could never rent this out, it wouldn’t be legal. But our nephew stayed there for a year when he came to go to university in the city, before he moved in with his girlfriend. It’s got a bathroom and a little kitchenette, some furniture. You could move in there, in exchange for doing the unloading here mornings, maybe helping restock the shelves at night before we close? And I could give you a few dollars in cash, too, but it would mostly be the room. A trade.”

 

“You… you want to give me a place to live?” he asks, not quite certain he’s hearing correctly.

 

“In payment for your help here,” Joseph agrees with a nod. “You can come up and see it now if you’d like, before you decide. Come.” He gestures and heads back into the stock room. There’s a door at the far end that leads into a small foyer with a second, exterior door, and a flight of stairs leading up.

 

Bag in hand, he slowly climbs the stairs behind Joseph. When they reach the landing, Joseph fumbles out a set of keys and opens another door, reaching inside to flip on a light. He looks back with a shrug. “It could use a cleaning, but it’s not in bad shape. We don’t come up here normally,” he says, stepping inside and holding the door open.

 

It’s a wide, open room with a window to the right of the door and another on the next wall over a low wooden dresser, both with plain beige blinds. To the left there’s a makeshift kitchen set up, with a small refrigerator, a long sideboard with a microwave resting on top and a rough oak table with two chairs. On the far wall, there’s an open door leading to a bathroom to the left and another door to the right that’s bolted shut. In the center of the room there’s a couch with some kind of hinged frame that looks like it might fold down flat for sleeping, and a floor lamp with a crooked pale blue shade.

 

Joseph crosses the room and turns on the light in the bathroom, brightening the space further. Then he closes the door part way to reveal another door behind it, which he opens. “Closet,” he says, peering inside. “There’s a set of sheets for the futon,” he adds, “and some towels.”

 

He glances back toward where James still stands in the doorway, taking it all in. “I know it’s not much, but it’s private and it’s safe. No one would bother you.”  He crosses to the door with the bolt. “This leads to our apartment, but it stays locked from both sides.” He makes a point of throwing open the bolt and showing that the door remains locked, then bolts it again.

 

“I… don’t know what to say.” It’s the truth. He doesn’t know if he should accept this offer. It feels too generous. He can’t understand why they would do this for him.

 

“You’re helping us. This lets us help you in return,” Joseph says.

 

“But your arm is going to heal.”

 

Joseph nods. “That’s true. But I’m sixty-four on my next birthday. The boxes, they aren’t getting any lighter,” he admits. “I think I’m fine, but Ella worries. We could use your help even after my arm heals.” He tilts his head, acknowledging the reality of it. “And if you find you need to move on, we’ll understand that, too. But you’re welcome here.”

 

“Then… I’ll stay,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

Joseph smiles. “Ella will be pleased.” He takes out his keys and carefully removes two on a small ring. “This one opens the apartment door here,” he says, waving at where they came in. “And this bigger one is for the lock on the outside door downstairs, so you can come in from the street.” He passes them over.

 

The keys are bright and new looking against the palm of his cheap glove. He nods and slips them into his pocket.

 

“I’ll let you look around and settle in a bit,” Joseph says, heading for the door. “Don’t forget to come get some breakfast, or Ella will come trying to feed you,” he warns. He pulls the door behind him.

 

The room isn’t large, but there’s still so much to look at. The bathroom has turquoise tiles and a white tub with a shower head over it and a rod and rings but no shower curtain. There is a small brush in a cup behind the toilet and a cupboard under the sink with some half-used cleaning products. A mirrored medicine cabinet hangs over the sink, and when he opens it he discovers a nearly new bottle of ibuprofen and a plastic wrapper with two unused disposable razors. He finds the towels Joseph mentioned in the closet, on a shelf running over the clothing rod. They are white and a little threadbare, but they smell clean and he hangs them on the towel rack in the bathroom. He retrieves the small bar of hotel soap he took earlier that week from where he’d tucked it in his duffel, and puts it in the bathroom as well.

 

Exploring the kitchen area, he finds some plastic bowels and cups and a few dishes in the sideboard, and some mismatched cutlery in a drawer. The refrigerator is empty and unplugged, so he plugs it in and listens to it churn quietly to life. The strange couch will take some examination, he thinks, but it can wait until later. For the time being he is more than satisfied with his unexpected new home. He puts his duffel in the closet and closes the door. He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if he should trust these people, if they will come up and look through his things the moment he leaves. But then he remembers Ella trusting him in the shop, letting him work on his own, believing he would not rob them, and he leaves his bag in the closet.

 

Finding the keys Joseph gave him, he heads out onto the landing, turns off the main light, and locks up behind himself before going downstairs for a breakfast sandwich.

 

~*~

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether he realizes it or not, James has bought himself time to heal. But healing brings memories, and while he expects the memories to hurt, he's not entirely prepared for how some of them affect him.

In the days that follow, he finds his routine shifting, taking on a different shape. He rises about when he used to, but now he goes downstairs and waits for the deliveries. Some days there’s just the one vendor, others as many as three, but it rarely takes more than a couple of hours for him to sort through everything and put it away. After that he goes in for breakfast, for which he insists on paying, and which Ella insists comes with an employee discount now that he works for them. He takes his meal up to his small room to eat, then washes up and heads off to the library.

 

At first he was tempted to eat lunch elsewhere, but he thought Ella might be insulted, and so that part of his routine has remained the same. But now on his way home from the library at the end of the day, he sometimes stops at a small grocery store and walks the aisles, deciding what to purchase for his refrigerator. He’s acquired bread and strawberry jam, a large jar of peanut butter, some apples, and the sorts of vegetables that he can eat raw – cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots. The frozen food section draws him every visit, particularly the boxes with entire dinners in them. He has read about microwave ovens on the internet, learned how they work and that he can’t use metal pots or containers in them, but the meals with the microwave directions make everything easy. He doesn’t know if Bucky Barnes ever learned to cook, but he thinks the microwave makes a good substitute for preparing meals with an actual oven or stove. Not all the frozen meals taste good, but he tries different kinds and different brands, and remembers the ones he likes best.

 

After he fixes himself dinner, he goes back down to the shop to help restock the shelves after closing. Either Ella or Joseph helps, letting him know what they’re running low on and which aisles need attention. This part of the day takes no more than a half-hour or so, since much of the shop’s business consists of deli orders, and Ella often restocks during the day when it’s slow.

 

Evenings are disorienting at first. He goes up to his room and shuts the door, enclosing himself within the same four walls every night. With the lights on and the shades drawn, he’s hidden from view, safe in a way he hasn’t felt in the few hotels where he’s spent the odd night and certainly never felt when sleeping more roughly. It takes several nights to even identify the sensation, to acknowledge that this space seems secure, even if he knows he can’t afford to let down his guard.

 

The trouble is, he has nothing to serve as a distraction, no way of occupying his time during the hours between finishing in the shop and curling up on the strange sofa bed to sleep. Televisions cost far too much and seem like an enormous waste of his small cache of funds. He thinks maybe he should find a radio, but even that feels overly indulgent, particularly since he has no way of knowing how long he’ll living in the small room. Ella and Joseph claim he is welcome as long as he needs a roof over his head, but that can’t be what they really mean. Besides which, he knows he can’t hide out forever. Eventually his memories will finish sorting themselves out and he’ll have to go back out into the world and take responsibility for his actions. Better for him to be able to travel light when he finally needs to leave.

 

More often than not, he lies in the dark and thinks about Steve, sifting through the few memories he has that he thinks he can trust. Several involve rescuing Steve from his own misplaced heroics, getting between him and whatever bully he’s chosen to teach a lesson – one likely to land Steve himself in bed, or worse, the hospital. But he has one series of memories – bits and pieces that run together, but he thinks they’re all of the same few days – where Steve lay in bed, so sick he could barely lift his head, the congestion in his chest setting off his asthma so he had to stay propped up on every pillow in the house, even the couch cushions, just so he could breathe. Steve’s mom was working nights, so Bucky stayed with him all the long hours of her shift, reading aloud from whatever books he’d found at the library, in part to keep himself awake, but also to distract them both from the slow, rhythmic wheezing as Steve fought for air.

 

He remembers those books. Pirate stories, cowboys, adventure novels, whatever sounded exciting to a couple of boys who’d never been farther than the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge. He thinks he skipped school that week, staggering home and conking out every morning when Mrs. Rogers came in to relieve him.

 

~*~

 

Saturday morning, after James has finished unpacking the latest deliveries and is waiting for his breakfast sandwich (egg with Swiss cheese and ham), Joseph pulls him aside and hands him an envelope.

 

“For the week,” he tells him. “We have Tim in this afternoon, the high school boy. He helps restock on the weekends, and also, there are no deliveries on Sunday. We’ll see you Monday morning, yes?”

 

He squeezes the envelope lightly and nods. “Monday. Thank you,” he says. It hadn’t occurred to him he might get a day off. A day and a half, really. He works so few hours, has the entire day off in the middle, it seems overly generous, but if there’s no work, he supposes that’s logical.

 

Joseph’s smile seems a little sad. “You enjoy your weekend, James. I think you work too hard, are too serious. Go have a little fun.”

 

Fun. He has a sudden mental image of Coney Island, way out on the end of the subway line, of the boardwalk and the Cyclone and Nathan’s hot dogs with mustard. But you don’t go to Coney Island alone.

 

Upstairs, he counts out the money. It’s not very much, just a little more than he might find in a wallet if he was out picking pockets, but it was earned, and he also has his room and an employee discount. Deep down, he suspects he gets far more than he deserves, but it doesn’t feel like robbing people, so he thinks it’s all right.

 

It’s too early to go to the library, and Joseph’s words ring in his head. What would be fun? Does he even remember? He thinks about the books he used to read to Steve, and thinks maybe he could buy some books, even if he can’t borrow any.

 

After he eats, he hides the majority of his cash away, pockets twenty dollars, and heads back out. Downstairs, he hesitates before going into the shop. Joseph has gone up front to the register, and Ella is behind the deli counter, but neither of them are helping customers. He approaches Ella, who smiles warmly as she always does.

 

“Ella,” he begins slowly. It’s still hard for him to initiate conversations, even with these people he speaks to, at least a little, every day.

 

“Yes, James? What do you need?”

 

“Do you know where there’s a bookstore nearby? Not new books,” he adds. He knows enough to understand his money won’t go far unless he buys second hand.

 

Ella’s brow furrows briefly before smoothing again. “Yes, I do,” she says. “The one I used to like best has gone out of business, but there’s a pretty good used bookstore about six blocks away. Hold on,” she tells him, tugging her cell phone from her apron pocket.

 

The first time she’d done something like that, James had been nervous, but now he understands she likes to look things up on the internet using her phone.

 

“Here we go,” she says, scribbling an address on a blank order form and handing it to him. “All the books to the left are collector’s items,” she says, “but if you go to the right of the desk, and also the back room, it’s all just used books. Be sure to check out the bargain box,” she adds. “You can find some wonderful deals.”

 

He tucks the paper into his pants pocket and smiles. “Thanks, Ella.”

 

“You’re welcome, James. I hope you find some treasures.”

 

~*~

 

Bertram’s Used and Antique Books stands on a quiet street corner under a leafy green tree, its wide windows welcoming and its door propped open with a brick to let in the mid-morning breeze. James enters quietly, but the man behind the register glances up from whatever he’s doing – reading a book, James realizes when he takes a few steps closer – and gives a casual smile and nod of acknowledgement.

 

“Browsing or looking for something specific?” he asks.

 

James freezes for a moment, turning the words over. “Browsing,” he says finally.

 

The man nods again. “No problem. Take your time. Let me know if I can help. And watch out for Marmalade.”

 

“Marmalade?” He can’t see how orange jam has anything to do with a bookstore.

 

The man smirks. “Our cat. She has the run of the place, and she sometimes curls up on the shelves if she can find the room. People get startled.”

 

James nods, thinking it’s a good thing the man warns people. Though most people probably aren’t dangerous when startled.

 

He wanders toward the right side of the store, remembering Ella’s recommendations. Different bookcases sport labels declaring what subjects they contain, and the back room seems to hold all the fiction. Deciding he reads enough nonfiction during his days at the library, he continues back, hoping to find some cheap stories to read in the evenings. As Ella promised, the prices are reasonable, and the bargain box in particular holds somewhat beat up paperbacks for just twenty-five cents each. He ends up kneeling down and sorting through the collection. Some of the books are very well used, covers barely hanging on, but he finds a couple of mysteries that sound interesting without being too intense, and a science fiction novel set on a planet made of sand.

 

Marmalade the cat makes her presence known when he reaches the classic literature section, hopping off the shelf and curling around his ankles as he looks at the different titles. When he doesn’t stop to play with her, she gets bored soon enough and wanders off, likely in search of someone to give her some attention.

 

The shelved books cost a bit more than the bargain books, but James still finds several familiar sounding titles for just a dollar each – _Treasure Island_ , which he’s sure he read to Steve; _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , which he thinks might have been a movie, but he doesn’t remember reading it; and a single-volume collection of _The Lord of the Rings_ , which seems like a particularly good deal. He takes his haul up to the counter and pays, pleased at how much change he’s given.

 

It’s tempting to start reading right away, but the books are for evenings, he’s already decided that, so he wanders slowly home, checking out the other stores on the way. It’s a little past the lunch rush when he gets back to the shop, and so Ella has a few minutes to examine his finds when he goes to order his sandwich. She makes approving sounds as she examines each title, and declares he has excellent taste, which leaves him with a strange, warm feeling in his chest.

 

Upstairs, James eats his lunch, looking around his small room as he does. It occurs to him he now has a home to clean on his day off, and that he should probably do that. So once he’s finished eating, he spends an hour tidying up the few things he owns and making the place presentable. He thinks he will do laundry the next day, and checks to make sure he has quarters and enough soap. Finally satisfied, he gets down on the floor to do some basic exercises – sit-ups, push ups, whatever he can think to do without equipment – conscious that he cannot allow himself to get out of shape.

 

That night, after a simple dinner of canned vegetable soup and a peanut butter sandwich, James curls up on the couch with _Treasure Island_ and begins to read. It’s not a long book, but he reads slowly, letting the images flood his brain, both of the boy wrapped up in the doings of pirates, and of the boy curled at the foot of his friend’s bed, reading long into the dark, tense night. He reads until he falls asleep in the puddle of light from the ugly floor lamp, unaware of the tear tracks staining his cheeks.

 

~*~

TBC

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James begins to realize that no matter how hard he tries to live an unassuming life, his past -- and even his present -- will continue to remind him he's no ordinary man.

Thursday morning he’s at the library, reading the day’s newspaper, when he comes across another suspicious arson notice, this time on the south side of Chicago. There’s a photo of the burned out shell of a building, the first floor a Thai restaurant, the upper stories apartments. To anyone else it might seem a simple low rise, but James feels his chest tighten as he scans the image, the address jumping to his mind before the text can verify it. He knows this building, knows what stands next door, what lies across the street, and is unsurprised when he reads farther and finds the phrase that confirms the sudden, ugly knowledge burning in his brain: _“…notable for its proximity to the site where Senator Luther Guthrie was gunned down by an unknown assailant in 1988…”_

 

The memory blooms as if he’s still there, poised on the roof with his rifle, the politician caught in his sights. He feels the faint jolt of kickback, sees the man jerk, his surprised expression, blood beginning to flow from a neat hole in the precise center of his forehead even as he tumbles to the concrete, people screaming or running or standing frozen in shock along the busy street. Someone shouts for the police; another voice cries “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” in an endless loop.

 

He can feel the contours of his weapon as he breaks it down, packs it up, and strides swiftly to the far side of the roof, well back from the street where he could be spotted. The distance to the next building might discourage another man, but he has his orders and he leaps without thought or consideration, just catching the edge of the adjacent roof with his metal hand, feeling the sharp pull against his flesh-and-blood shoulder as he drags himself upward to safety, swinging himself and his bag over the ledge. He rises and continues with purpose to the trap door, down the rear stairwell, all the way to the basement where his handlers wait, and then down still farther, through a dark tunnel to yet another basement, before emerging into an alley and an idling van, disappearing like the ghost he is.

 

James pushes back from the table where he’s been reading and flees the library, desperate for air against his face. He charges out the front door and staggers a dozen yards before dropping to his knees and losing every bit of his breakfast on the dirty sidewalk. Blood, wet and pungent, fills his nostrils, though he could not have scented it on the day itself. This is his punishment, his penance, a mind that takes his memories and twists them, taunts him, until he can no longer separate reality from the products of his imagination – as if the truth isn’t bad enough on its own.

 

“Mr. Barnes? James, are you all right?”

 

He jerks upward at the soft voice to find Tamara from the information desk standing a few feet away, the small day pack he’s been using held in one hand. He didn’t hear her approach, and he can only be grateful she was wise enough to keep her distance, that she knew better than to touch him while he was lost in his memories. Struggling slowly to his feet, one hand pressed to the wall of the library for support, he nods, unsure of his ability to speak.

 

“You left this. I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” she says gently, holding out his bag.

 

James stares at it a moment, then nods again.

 

Looking suddenly wary, she sets the bag down, well away from the mess he’s left on the ground. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, despite her obvious caution.

 

He takes a slow breath, testing. He’s trembling slightly, but beyond that he feels steady enough. “No,” he says. “Thank you.” He pauses, but she waits, as if she can tell he’s not finished. “I think,” he says, “I’m gonna go home. Would you mind taking my name off the computer sign up for today?”

 

Her expression relaxes. “Of course not. You feel better.”

 

He nods, then stoops and lifts his bag. He waits for her to turn back to the library, then slowly heads in the opposite direction.

 

The tremors vanish by the time he unlocks the back door and climbs the stairs to his room, but his mouth tastes sour and his head throbs and all he wants is the cool, dark comfort of his strange sofa. He’s figured out how to make it lie flat like a bed, though most nights he doesn’t bother, but he does now, after brushing his teeth and tongue and spitting the foul memories into the bathroom sink.

 

He carefully sets the small travel alarm clock and places it on the floor within easy reach. He bought it so he’d know the precise hour more than for the alarm; his internal clock never fails to wake him in time to unload the deliveries. But he feels odd and he doesn’t want to risk being late for his evening shift restocking the shop. Satisfied that he has back up, he strips down and crawls beneath the sheet, pressing his face into his cheap pillow with its uneven stuffing and exhaling in relief. It’s not that he wants to sleep, or that he still feels ill. He just appreciates the familiar scent, the way the mattress cradles him, the quiet and solitude of the space. The illusion of safety feels more tangible every day.

 

Closing his eyes soon proves to be a mistake. He has no desire to revisit the past, to visualize his missions as the Winter Soldier, but that’s exactly what paints the insides of his eyelids the moment he lets them flutter shut. Rolling flat onto his back, he stares through the dim light up at the unremarkable ceiling and wonders why this particular hit bothers him so much. He’s recalled other assassinations that were far more brutal and bloody, yet this one sent him scrambling into the street and upended his stomach. Of course, it’s not the mission itself that affected him, but the idea that Steve had possibly gone to that place, that he knew about the mission, that he’d chosen to destroy a building due to its ties to the Soldier’s past.

 

Had there been a Hydra base there? He doesn’t believe there was in 1988. They wouldn’t have planned to take out a target so close to their own territory. But that building with the tunnel, they must have owned it. Perhaps it became a base later, or maybe just a place to store information. If it was arson as the paper suggested, if Steve was truly behind it, then there must have been a reason to set that building aflame, something that would serve as a blow to Hydra. Steve might not even know his own connection to the site; it could be a coincidence.

 

It’s wishful thinking. He doesn’t know when he began to think this way. It’s so foreign to how the Soldier was trained. Everything was always considered in terms of the mission and its successful completion. Wishes, dreams, wants… these had no part in how he processed information. Fantasy, like love, was for children.

 

Sleep claims him eventually, dragging him down with a heavy hand. He tosses restlessly, his mind flickering through the pages of the past, but always returning to Steve. Only now instead of the scrawny young man, he is the Captain, the symbol, the savior.

 

_He slips an arm across Bucky’s back, supporting his shoulder, half-carrying him from the medical tent, over packed earth and patches of snow to the small single tent he’s been assigned as an officer._

_“Come on, Buck, I gotcha.”_

_“No, this is your bed. I’m fine in with the rest of the guys, Steve,” he protests, words garbled with fatigue._

_“Just got you back. You think I’m letting you out of my sight again?” The words tease, but the tone is edged with fear, and Bucky’s too tired to argue further._

_They curl up, back to front, Steve’s arm a warm weight over his chest, strange and yet somehow still familiar. He falls asleep huddled into the furnace-like heat of his best friend behind him, his low voice whispering reassurances in his ear, and soft lips brushing the occasional kiss against his neck._

 

The alarm pulls James from the depths of his dream and he groans in protest. The memory can’t be real, he knows. It’s just one more twist of his mind, designed to torture him, punish him for his crimes, but he hates to let it go. Hates to allow the warmth and sense of safety and feeling of connection to slip away, along with the last vestiges of sleep. He presses his face back into the pillow, eyes shut, and tries to will himself back into the cocoon of Steve’s arms, but he can’t. The alarm continues to beep quietly from the floor, and finally he reaches over and silences it.

 

~*~

 

It’s the following morning while he’s unloading milk cartons into the back hallway that he realizes there’s a glitch in his arm. As long as the limb is bent, it functions properly, but when he attempts to extend it at the elbow, something catches just above the joint, causing it to remain at a wide angle, perhaps twenty degrees shy of perfectly straight. He continues working through his shift, but the problem persists, and by the time he’s finished he thinks it might have worsened.

 

Upstairs, he strips off his shirt and gloves and examines the arm to the best of his ability, using the small mirror over the bathroom sink to see the back. Nothing appears to be trapped in the flowing segments of metal, nor is there any damage apparent. Still, it is clear something is malfunctioning.

 

Normally, his arm is serviced following every mission. Had he returned to his handlers in Washington after the final battle with Steve, they would have run complicated diagnostics and then made whatever repairs or tune ups were necessary. However, he did not return to his handlers, and so whatever injuries he might have sustained during that last confrontation have remained, likely exacerbated by his repetitive movements on the job. It has been more than a month, and so he imagines even a minor misalignment might have degraded over time to cause the current predicament.

 

He goes through the rest of the day according to his routine. Restocking the shelves that evening proves easy enough, and he suspects the weight of the boxes he unloads in the morning causes more stress than the light items he fetches from the back to replenish the store at night. The next morning he attempts to favor his metal arm, and he thinks he is mostly successful when he has finished unpacking the latest deliveries and his elbow is no worse. But he knows he needs to find a solution, a way to get his arm repaired. Unlike a flesh-and-blood limb, this will not heal by itself over time with just a bit of coddling. He needs an expert in technology, someone who can determine the problem and fix it. And more difficult still, he needs it to be someone he trusts.

 

The solution – or at least part of it – is obvious. James only trusts one person to help him find a way to repair his arm. He will have to go back into Manhattan and find Steve.

 

~*~

 

TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James braves a visit to Stark Tower in search of Steve.

James remembers Steve telling him to go to Stark Tower if he needs to get in touch, but he has his suspicions about what Steve has been doing in recent weeks, so he knows he can’t assume the man will be there waiting when he arrives. Since it’s Saturday and he’s finished with work until Monday morning, he decides he should go now but be prepared to linger in the neighborhood so he can return when Steve is available. Stark’s building is near the main library, with the park just behind it, so he packs his small knapsack with water and snacks and his copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ , and heads for the subway.

 

It being the weekend, Times Square is more crowded than usual when he emerges from the train. He keeps his head angled down as has become his habit, scanning his surroundings for anything suspicious looking as he wends his way through the masses of tourists to get to the east side. As part of his daily perusal of the newspapers, he’s made sure to read everything he could find on the group known as the Avengers, focusing in particular on Steve, of course, but also Stark, whom he knows is Howard’s son, and the Black Widow, whom he determined to be the red-headed woman he’d fought in D.C. The Avengers make an obvious set of targets for Hydra, which makes Stark Tower a logical place for Hydra to watch. James has successfully kept off of Hydra’s radar, as near as he’s been able to tell, and the last thing he wants to do now is alert them to his presence in New York. Fortunately the weather is cool, allowing him to wear his cap and light jacket, and to keep his hand in his pocket, concealing the unseasonable glove that camouflages the metal. He has no idea what he will do once summer arrives.

 

Stark’s tower looms over Grand Central Station. James knows from newspaper photos that his name used to appear on the side, up near the roof, but the majority of the letters were knocked loose during the battle against the invading aliens nearly two years ago. Repairs seem to have been completed to the structure itself, but a single A is the only part of Stark’s name that remains and nothing has been done to restore the rest of it. James wonders, staring up at the sleek lines of the stylized letter, if Stark now considers the tower to be a place for all of the Avengers.

 

He circles around the train station and enters the tower from the north side. The brightly lit lobby features a broad, high desk with two uniformed attendants, a digital directory on the marble wall behind them, and beyond that several elevator banks. To the side, however, he spots a small desk manned by a single woman seated on a stool, no directory in sight, and what is obviously a private elevator behind a glass (bulletproof?) security door. That, he suspects, is where he needs to go, but he stands quietly out of the way of the entrance near some potted yellow flowers and observes people coming into the building for several minutes to be certain. The vast majority approach the main desk; a few who must work in the building use key cards to swipe their way directly through the turnstiles leading to the main elevators. A single delivery person goes over to the small desk and is swiftly redirected to the larger one.

 

Finally, James approaches the small desk. He thinks he should probably take off his cap since he’s inside, but he neglected to pull his hair back and it will just fall into his face if he removes the hat now.

 

The woman at the desk doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of courtesy, simply glancing up with a generic smile. “May I help you?”

 

“I’m trying to find Steve Rogers,” he says. “He told me I should look for him here, or that someone here could locate him for me.”

 

Her expression remains blandly polite, but she sits up slightly straighter, hands lifting over her keyboard. “Your name, please?”

 

“James Barnes.”

 

Her fingers fly over the keys and she nods as something appears on her screen. “I have a Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes listed, with Bucky in parentheses,” she says, meeting his gaze. “Is that you?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly aware that he’s relieved, and maybe a little surprised, to find Steve told someone to expect him. He shouldn’t be shocked, he supposes. Steve’s always trusted him, even when he shouldn’t have, and as far as James can recall, he always honors his promises.

 

“Captain Rogers isn’t in the building at the moment,” the woman says, sounding regretful, “but he left instructions that you be allowed to wait for him upstairs. If you’d like to go through, the elevator will take you up to the private quarters where you’ll be more comfortable, and someone will come let you know when Mr. Rogers is expected back.”

 

He hesitates. It’s one thing to come looking for Steve but another to let himself get swept up to some unknown floor in this giant building with all of its security measures. He’d been prepared to wait but somewhere else, like the park or a coffee shop. Getting invited into Stark’s building by a complete stranger makes him nervous. Will he be able to leave if he wants?

 

Still, the invitation is really from Steve. Steve left instructions. Asked that they make him comfortable while he waits. And James trusts Steve.

 

The woman is waiting patiently for his response, eyebrows arched slightly. She clearly doesn’t understand his reluctance, probably has no idea at all who he is. In the end, the fact that she’s just a young woman manning the desk and not some undercover agent or military type lying in wait is what convinces him to go up. And if it turns out to be a trap, well, he’s gotten himself out of traps before.

 

He finally gives a little nod, and her smile relaxes slightly. She waves him toward the door and does something beneath her desk that sends the glass sliding open to admit him. He walks through, wondering at the lack of a metal detector until a light scans him as he stands in front of the elevator doors.

 

“Pardon me, Sergeant Barnes,” a disembodied voice states, “but you appear to be armed. Captain Rogers indicated that you might be, and assured us that you would not be a threat to the occupants of this tower. However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that any unwarranted aggression on your part will result in your being subdued and your weapons confiscated for the duration of your visit.”

 

James turns around, trying to find the source of the voice. When he finally locates a small security camera, he gives it a nod. “I’m not here to hurt anybody,” he says.

 

“Very good, sir. Welcome to Stark Tower,” the voice continues, sounding oddly jovial. The doors to the elevator open.

 

James stares into the elevator for a moment, then steps forward. The doors shut behind him and the elevator instantly begins to move smoothly upward. It’s an express, the numbered buttons jumping from L all the way to sixty-five, then running in sequence to eighty. The button for the seventy-sixth floor is the only one lit, and James assumes that is where he’s being delivered, so it comes as no surprise when that is where the elevator stops.

 

“Here you are, sir,” the voice states. “Please makes yourself at home.”

 

The doors open directly into some sort of living area – no lobby or vestibule, no sign of an attendant or additional security. James steps out onto thick grey carpeting and the elevator closes behind him, leaving him no choice but to continue forward. The room appears to take up the majority of the floor and features a number of seating areas, including one consisting of two enormous sectional sofas facing a wall-sized screen, several well-lit smaller configurations of love seats and chairs that seem intended for conversation or reading, and a dining area with a long table surrounded by straight-backed, upholstered chairs. Off to one side, through a wide archway, he can make out a kitchen, and the far wall of the room consists of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city.

 

Despite the grand proportions and expensive furnishings, the area manages to look lived in. He spots a stack of books – paperbacks, not those fancy art books or anything bound in leather – on one of the end tables, and a laptop and some loose sheets of yellow lined paper on the dining table, along with a half-empty coffee mug. A television remote sticks out from between a couple of couch cushions, and a pair of sneakers lies on the floor near an overstuffed chair, one flipped on its side as if kicked off in haste. If he wasn’t certain it was impossible, James would think he was standing in Stark’s own apartment.

 

Fingers clutching at the straps of his knapsack, he walks slowly across the floor to take in the view. He thinks the last time he was this high up was when he was fighting Steve on the helicarrier, and the thought sends a chill down his spine. Pressing his face against the glass, he stares down at the city below, everything so small and slow at this distance. He should feel safe, knowing how removed he is from any Hydra agents who might be down there searching for him, but instead he somehow feels incredibly vulnerable. It’s not a feeling he enjoys, and he takes an abrupt step back so that all he can see is the tops of the nearby buildings and the East River beyond them.

 

Behind him, the elevator opens and he turns to see a slight dark-haired man with a goatee exit onto the floor. If it weren’t for his casual modern dress – jeans and some sort of band t-shirt worn over a shirt with long sleeves – James would think he was looking at Howard Stark. He’s seen photos of Tony, but he never noticed how strong the resemblance to his father.

 

“Barnes, yes?” Stark says, approaching without the slightest hint of nerves. “Steve said you were having some issues about what to call yourself. Is Barnes okay? You prefer something else?”

 

He shakes his head. “Barnes is fine.”

 

“Great,” he says, extending his hand. “Tony Stark, though I’m guessing you know that already.”

 

James looks down then reaches out to shake. Stark has a firm grip, his hand surprisingly calloused for a man with so much money, but then James has read the billionaire likes to tinker, get down and dirty with the stuff he builds.

 

“Can I get you something? Drink? Something to eat?”

 

He shakes his head. “I was looking for Steve. He said to come if I needed anything.”

 

“Right. He’s actually out of town at the moment, but he’s due back this evening.”

 

“From Chicago?”

 

Stark’s expression tightens minutely. “You heard about that, huh?”

 

James glances away. “It was in the newspaper. I thought he might…” He’s not sure what to say. It already feels like he’s given away something he shouldn’t have.

 

‘You’re not wrong,” Stark tells him. “But no. He’s actually down in D.C. taking care of some stuff unrelated to Hydra. Anyway, you’re welcome to hang out here and wait for him. We’ve got television, movies, internet, whatever. Kitchen’s stocked with munchies or I’d be happy to order up some lunch.”

 

James frowns, trying to read Stark’s face. He seems in earnest. “Why?” he asks finally.

 

Stark’s brows dart upward. “Uh, because it’s almost lunchtime?” He raises his left wrist, indicating his watch.

 

“No, why are you offering to let me stay here to wait for Steve. I could leave and come back later.”

 

“Yeah, you could. You can, if that’s what you want. I just figured it was less of a hassle to hang out here. It’s pretty comfortable.”

 

“But why do you care if I’m comfortable?”

 

Stark sighs. “Look, Barnes, Rogers and I may not always see eye to eye, but we’ve fought together and I consider him a friend. He came to me for help when he was trying to track you down, and I was there when he walked off the bridge after chatting with you a few weeks back. Letting you go off alone and do your own thing? Figure out who you are now? Just about killed him. He doesn’t talk about it, but I know he’s been worried about you, not because he thinks you’re a danger to anyone, but because he knows Hydra’s still out there and that they’d love to get their hands on you again. You seem to have made it here from wherever you’ve been hiding out unscathed. I just want to make sure you stay that way until Steve gets back.” He shrugs. “Not gonna try and keep you from going if that’s what you want to do, but I think it’s better if you stick around.”

 

James doesn’t have a lot of memories of Howard Stark. Maybe there are some still hidden in the recesses of his mind, or erased forever by everything that came after he fell, but he thinks they would only be more of the same. The older Stark was a genius, there was no disputing that, but for all of his joviality, and his interest in providing the war effort with the best weapons and equipment possibly, he had a sense of superiority and entitlement that rubbed James the wrong way, at least the few times they were both present at meetings or strategy sessions, which are the only real encounters he can recall.

 

This Stark, by comparison, seems more genuine, which is not an impression James anticipated after reading about him in the newspapers. He realizes the media does not always represent people in the truest sense, but the man in front of him is a far cry from the spoiled, wealthy, womanizing playboy he had imagined. James knows better than to fully assess anyone from a single short conversation, but he has seen enough that he thinks he understands why Steve might trust Tony Stark, even if he doesn’t entirely like him. This is the same man who dons a metal suit and tries to make the world a safer place for those without his wealth or other advantages.

 

James nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’ll stay and wait here, then, if you really don’t mind.”

 

Stark beams at him. “Lunch, then? How do you feel about Italian? Some antipasto, a little fish, lasagna maybe? No offense, but you look like you could stand to pick up a few pounds.” He’s already turned and is heading toward the kitchen.

 

James frowns slightly and follows, curious to see what Stark is doing. At the comment about his weight, he runs his hand self-consciously down his cheek and over his chin, aware that beneath the growth of beard his face has been thinning. Despite his improved circumstances, he knows he isn’t that good at taking care of himself.

 

Stark’s got one of the kitchen drawers open and is fishing out a stack of papers. When James moves closer, he recognizes them as take-out menus.

 

Stark glances over his shoulder. “Hey, I get it,” he says. “Hard to eat regularly when you’re trying to lie low. No worries. But I’ve got pretty much every kind of food you can think of here at the end of the phone,” he says, fanning out a bunch of the menus and shrugging slightly. “So name your poison. Chinese? Mexican? Pizza?”

 

James blinks. “Italian is fine.”

 

“Terrific. JARVIS, order up an assortment. Cap’ll eat whatever’s leftover so make sure to get extra.”

 

“Very good, sir,” says the disembodied voice from earlier, and James startles, looking around.

 

“Relax,” Stark tells him. “That’s just JARVIS. He’s basically a computerized butler I built to run my life. Artificial Intelligence.” He stares at James, forehead creasing slightly. “J, didn’t you introduce yourself?”

 

“Sergeant Barnes and I had a brief discussion earlier about his weapons but that was all, sir,” the voice says. “My apologies, Sergeant. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

James stares up at the ceiling, trying to locate a camera or a speaker, but wherever JARVIS is, there’s no outward indication of him. “Uh, yeah, same here,” he says, feeling awkward talking to the air. “So you’re everywhere?” he asks. He’s heard of A.I. before, but he does not think he’s encountered one before, and he certainly had no idea they were so advanced as to seem like an actual person.

 

“Yes, sir. I am everywhere Mr. Stark spends time, which covers considerable ground.”

 

‘I’ve got him built into pretty much everything,” Stark adds. “Houses, office, cars, the suit. Anything I can network, I can use to access JARVIS.”

 

“Lunch should arrive within the hour, sir,” JARVIS says. “Also, you have a message from Miss Potts regarding the board meeting this week.”

 

“Yeah. Tell her I’ll get back to her on that. Still not sure going’s the best use of my time.”

 

“It’s been rescheduled for week from Tuesday, sir,” JARVIS continues.

 

“Oh, well then, no problem,” Stark says. He’s heading back out of the kitchen when his gaze settles on James, his brow furrowing. “You can take off your jacket,” he says. “Come on, Barnes, make yourself comfortable. Put your bag down, have a seat. If you want me to get out of your hair, I can take off until lunch gets here.”

 

“No, I… you don’t have to go,” James says. He slowly slips his knapsack off his back, letting it hang from his metal hand. He notices Stark’s eyes following the movement, focusing in on his glove, and he flexes his fingers self-consciously.

 

“It’s no big deal,” Stark says, nodding at him.

 

James stares down at his hand. “Because you already know about it,” he says. “But if I were to walk down the street with it in the open… it would cause problems.”

 

“I won’t argue with you there.”

 

Even though it’s perfectly logical, James somehow hadn’t expected Stark to agree. Perhaps because he has been subtly pushing him out of his comfort zone since he arrived. It’s a strange realization. He sets his bag on the table in front of the couch and takes off his jacket and hat. As his hair falls forward, he tucks it behind his ears.

 

Stark walks around the edge of the table and sinks into the couch opposite, nodding at James to take a seat. The cushions are the sort that embrace you as you sit, plush with a slightly velvety texture. He runs his hand over the smooth beige fabric, marveling at the softness.

 

“So what brings you looking for Steve today? If I can ask, that is. I mean, I understand if it’s a secret or whatever, but I just wondered,” Stark says. “You’ve been off the radar for a few weeks, so I figured something must have happened to make you turn up now.”

 

He watches his hand move back and forth against the couch cushion, notes the way the fabric changes color as he rubs the nap each way. His first instinct is to say nothing, to refuse to answer Stark’s question because, for all that he feels the man might be trustworthy, he doesn’t really know him and he does not believe in taking useless risks. But he also knows about Stark’s engineering background and the suit he was able to build in a cave in Afghanistan, so he thinks if there’s anyone who might have an idea of how to repair his arm, it’s Stark. He also suspects that when he tells Steve what has happened, Steve will want to ask Stark for help anyway.

 

Glancing up, he sees Stark waiting with what he suspects is an unusual level of patience, and he makes his decision. “My arm,” he says. “The metal one. It hasn’t been working well since I left Washington, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

 

The light in Stark’s eyes betrays his excitement despite his carefully guarded expression. “I could take a look at it if you want. After lunch, maybe? Or we could wait for Steve to get back, too, if you’d rather. But I know a thing or two about mechanics. You in any pain?”

 

James frowns at that. “The malfunction is an inconvenience,” he says. “And I think it is becoming worse. But it doesn’t cause any new pain.”

 

Stark leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “New pain?” he questions. “So whatever’s not working right, that doesn’t hurt, but something else does?”

 

“The arm has always been painful,” James says, unsure why this isn’t obvious. “Metal attached to flesh. Pain is inevitable.”

 

Stark’s face contorts with clear fury. “Man, is that what those Hydra assholes told you?” He stands abruptly enough that James has a knife pulled before Stark’s cleared the side of the table, but he relaxes when it becomes clear the man just needs to pace.

 

“Look, maybe when they first fitted you with a prosthetic, the tech wasn’t too advanced, but there is no reason in this day and age for you to be in pain. Just one more way they were keeping you in line,” he growls out.

 

James returns his knife to its hiding place as he watches Stark stride back and forth, mesmerized by his obvious anger, anger he apparently feels on James’s behalf. It doesn’t quite seem real. He understands, on some level, that Steve feels similarly about his time as the Winter Soldier, at the way he was taken and turned into a weapon, but Steve has known James Barnes from childhood. Stark is a stranger. He has no personal connection to James, beyond the knowledge that he and Howard had met during the war.

 

“Goddamn it,” Stark mutters, shaking his head as he moves restlessly toward the kitchen again. “I hope Cap burns them all to the ground.” He reaches the kitchen entrance and glances back. “Sorry, but I need a drink. Just one, because after lunch we’re going to see about fixing you up, and steady hands are important. But for now, a little Scotch is called for. You want one?”

 

He doesn’t remember the last time he drank. He recalls Steve saying he can’t get drunk because of the serum, and wonders if the same is true of him. “Sure,” he agrees, because suddenly it seems like a good idea to find out.

 

~*~

 

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James learns a little something about the excesses of Tony Stark, Tony starts to examine the workings of James's arm, and Steve returns to the tower.

Although James can’t claim that liquor has no effect on him, he can tell even from the single Scotch he shares with Stark that it will take considerably more to get him drunk than he believes would be considered normal. The fiery liquid burns his throat in a pleasant, vaguely familiar way, and warms his stomach while reminding him that breakfast was a number of hours ago and he’s more than ready to eat again. When JARVIS informs them that their food has arrived, he decides it’s a good thing.

 

Stark has ordered a truly startling amount of food for lunch. Someone brings the delivery up in the elevator in two enormous brown paper shopping bags, their bottoms buckling from the weight, and Stark unloads everything onto the dining table in large aluminum trays with cardboard lids that he pries open to reveal dish after fragrant dish. There are tender veal medallions in a light lemony gravy, spinach sautéed in olive oil with garlic, fat wedges of lasagna with a hearty meat sauce, crisp calamari and fried zucchini with marinara. In a separate set of clear plastic containers are slices of red tomatoes, mozzarella, and fresh basil leaves, assorted sliced salamis and cheeses, marinated olives, mushrooms, and colorful little red and green peppers. An entire loaf of bread emerges from a long paper sleeve.

 

Glancing around, James expects someone else to come join them, but Stark simply grabs a couple of plates from the kitchen, two sealed bottles of water, and silverware, and brings it all over to the table.

 

“Help yourself,” he says, nodding toward the trays of food. He then proceeds to fix a plate of his own consisting of a couple of zucchini spears, some of the cold salads, and a single piece of veal.

 

James takes the second empty plate but hesitates. He’s hungry, but the situation has him confused. Finally Stark looks up with a faint frown as he cracks open his water bottle. “Go on,” he says. “There’s gotta be something here you like.”

 

Nodding, James goes ahead and fills his plate, focusing on the more elaborately cooked foods he so seldom eats. Stark seems happy to sit and eat in silence, so he takes a chair opposite and concentrates on his meal. When Stark eventually begins to chatter again, James tries to respond, but most of the talk has veered toward general topics and it soon becomes clear that even if James remains silent, Stark is more than capable of continuing the conversation without the additional input. He rambles on about some fund raiser he attended earlier that week, someone named Pepper who appears to be his girlfriend, the unseasonably cool spring, and the improvements he made to the tower while completing the recent repairs. James notes that he mentions nothing specifically pertaining to security, his current projects, or anything related to SHIELD or Hydra, and certainly nothing to do with Steve.

 

Stark waits until James has cleaned his plate before he allows the small talk to taper off. “You good?” he asks, waving a hand at the mountains of food that remain. “Go ahead and take more if you want.”

 

James has eaten far more in one sitting than he can ever recall having, and he is feeling surprisingly sluggish as a result. “Thank you, I’m fine,” he says.

 

“Let me know if you change your mind. There’s plenty left here for dinner later, even if we have a snack in a bit. Or I’ve got other food if you’d rather,” he adds, gesturing back toward the kitchen. “JARVIS, have someone come wrap this all up, would you?”

 

“Of course, sir,” comes the polite reply.

 

“So, Barnes. You up for letting me check out your arm?” Stark asks as he stands. “Or would you feel more comfortable waiting?” He glances at his watch. “I doubt we’ll see Cap for at least another couple of hours.”

 

James watches Stark’s expression as he speaks. He seems carefully casual, but he suspects that is Stark’s way of coming across as non-threatening more than an attempt to mask an ulterior motive. He drains the rest of his water to buy a few moments to think, eyes remaining fixed on Stark, who’s drumming his fingers against the edge of the table even as he taps one foot. James wonders if he’s unaccustomed to sitting still for long.

 

“If I let you look,” James begins, “that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you do anything more right now, understand?”

 

Stark nods quickly, looking relieved. “Sure, no problem. We’ll just see if we can get a handle on what’s malfunctioning to start.” He begins striding towards the elevator. “Come on. Everything I need is down in the workshop.”

 

James rises and collects his jacket and hat and bag from where he left them during lunch. Stark’s gaze follows him, but he doesn’t suggest that James leave his belongings behind. James doesn’t know if this is because he intends to send him home directly from his workshop, or if he understands that James has no intention of leaving his things lying around where he can’t see them.

 

Stark’s workshop is several levels down and appears to take up the entire floor. Unlike the living area, this floor has a secure lobby with a glass door and a palm reader at the entrance. Stark presses his hand to the panel and the door slides soundlessly into the wall.

 

James follows him slowly into the wide, brightly lit room, unsure where to look first. He spots a shiny red-and-gold Iron Man suit at the far end of the room, several long tables covered with bits and pieces of electronics, and a square table with what appears to be a built-in computer interface as part of the surface. A small robot with a single hinged arm rolls forward with a quiet beep and stops abruptly in front of him, distracting him from his inventory of the room.

 

“That’s DUM-E. He’s harmless,” Stark says. “Mostly. Just stay away from him if he comes at you with a fire extinguisher.”

 

James frowns. “Is he like JARVIS?”

 

“No, no. I mean, yes, he’s got a level of sentience, but way less brain power. He helps out, sort of. Gets in the way, but he means well. Don’t you?” he asks the robot in a tone one might use on a child. The little robot beeps, somehow sounding earnest, but it drops its arm as if ducking its head.

 

Stark continues into the room and pulls out a stool near the table with the interface. “How about you get rid of the shirt and hop up here so I can take a look?”

 

James walks slowly toward the stool and puts his things down on the floor just beneath the table before sitting down. He catches the bottom hem of his shirt and draws it up over his head, dropping it with the rest of his things. The action leaves him feeling incredibly exposed. He doesn’t know the last time he had a choice about allowing someone to see him this way, and his experiences with people examining the arm have never been pleasant.

 

Stark, however, makes no move to touch him. Instead he stares at James’s metal arm, brow furrowed, and shifts back and forth in order to observe it at different angles. When he raises his hands, it’s merely to gesture. “Could you lift it up and out to the side?” he requests.

 

James does as he asks, and continues to move and flex as suggested so that Stark can watch the arm work. With each change in position, it becomes more and more obvious that the limb will no longer extend fully.

 

“Hmm,” Stark says, tapping the fingers of one hand against his pursed lips. “Okay. I’m going to have JARVIS run some scans. He can do it right here, electronically, won’t have to touch you or anything. Is that all right with you?”

 

“What will the scans do?”

 

“They’ll let me get an idea of how the arm functions on the inside, the mechanics of it. They’ve got it hooked into your neural system somehow. It’s the only explanation for the amount of control you have. Hopefully then I’ll be able to determine what’s causing the glitch, and also if there’s a way to lessen the pain.” His frown deepens as he speaks, his gaze focused on James’s shoulder, where metal meets flesh.

 

James nods. “All right. You can do the scans.”

 

Stark nods. “You heard him, buddy.” He points at the table. “Just rest your arm on the surface and JARVIS will do the rest.”

 

He extends his arm over the top of the table and, when Stark waves at him to continue, sets it down on the smooth surface. A warm red light fires up from the table, matched by another coming from the ceiling directly above it. The two lights encase his metal hand and slowly inch upwards until they have scanned the entire length of the prosthetic. Then the lights shift and repeat the motion from a slightly different angle.

 

“What can you tell me about it?” Stark asks, as the scans continue.

 

“The arm itself or what’s wrong with it?”

 

“Either. Both. Anything you think of could be helpful.”

 

James considers for a moment. “This is the third arm,” he says finally. “The original was more basic. And there was another one before this, as well. It improved on the first but was more difficult to control than this one is.”

 

Stark nods, indicating he should continue.

 

“I don’t know how they changed them. I just woke up with the newer models each time.”

 

“Have they ever removed it while you were awake? To do maintenance or repair something?”

 

“No. If they did anything like that, it wasn’t while I was conscious. But they did do repairs when it was required, generally after a mission. They had something they’d attach to do diagnostics.”

 

“I’m guessing whatever’s wrong now is a result of your fight with Rogers?”

 

James nods, but the memory makes him uncomfortable. “On the helicarrier. He slammed the edge of his shield between the segments and it jammed the mechanism. It seemed to straighten out at the time, but the last few days it’s started to malfunction.”

 

Stark leans in, out of the way of the scanning lights and careful to avoid contact with the arm itself. “I think I can see the entry point,” he says, pointing. “JARVIS, I’m gonna need a blow up of this section when you’re done.”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

“You have any sensation in it?” Stark asks, glancing up.

 

“Not the way you would with a real arm. More an awareness. There are neural sensors that allow me to know when I’m grasping something and my position in relation to objects.”

 

“Kinda limiting,” Stark says. “For real life, at least. Don’t imagine Hydra particularly cared.”

 

The red lights shut off and JARVIS’s voice fills the rooms. “I have completed the scans, sir.”

 

“Great, J, put them up,” Stark says.

 

A series of highly detailed holographic images suddenly come to life above the table, and James jerks backward in surprise, his arm flying through the edge of one of the scans and making it ripple briefly.

 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Stark says. “I work better with the 3-D imagery, especially for this sort of thing.”

 

Each image features the arm from a different angle, and in some of them the metal exterior appears to be transparent, providing a glimpse of the network of wiring and electronics beneath the surface. James stares, trying to make some sense of what he’s seeing, wondering at the technology that makes it possible to take these sorts of pictures.

 

“It’s probably going to be a while before I figure anything out,” Stark says somewhat absently, most of his focus already on the floating images. “You want to head back upstairs and watch TV or something? I mean, you can hang out here if you’d like,” he adds, nodding toward a long, streamlined couch up against the wall. “But you’ll probably get pretty bored.”

 

James glances over at the couch. It’s got a couple of sweatshirts draped over the back and several small pillows piled to one side. “I have a book,” he says.

 

That causes Stark to look over at him. “Yeah? Whatcha reading?”

 

“ _The Lord of the Rings_.”

 

Stark nods. “They made those into movies a few years ago. Pretty good. I’m guessing you missed them, but you should definitely check them out. Finish the books first, though. How far have you got?”

 

“Not far. The hobbits just reached the inn at Bree,” he says.

 

“What do you think?”

 

James tilts his head to the side, reviewing the story so far. “I like it,” he says. “There’s a lot about nature, but I think that’s going to change.”

 

“Not so much. I mean, yeah, things get more serious as the story goes along, but the nature’s pretty much a staple. Tolkien, the author, fought in World War One,” Stark says. “Lost a bunch of friends. Came back with a lot of ideas about the war and the effects it had on the British way of life. He was pretty angry at how much the countryside suffered, among other things. I think his feelings really come through in his books.”

 

James just slides off his stool and pulls on his shirt, then gathers his things off the floor. “I think I need to read more to be able to tell,” he says as he walks over to the couch.

 

“I usually play music while I work,” Stark says. “Will that bother you? I’ll keep it low.”

 

“It won’t bother me.”

 

“Okay then. JARVIS, standard mix, quarter volume.”

 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replies.

 

Quiet rock music fills the room as James settles on the couch and pulls his book out of his bag. Glancing up, he finds Stark already intently studying the scans, murmuring to himself under his breath, brows drawn together. James opens his book and starts to read.

 

~*~

 

Stark proves prone to the occasional outburst as he works, either talking to his A.I. or just complaining to thin air. James determines pretty quickly that Stark has all but forgotten his presence, and that’s fine with him. He reads quietly and tunes out both Stark’s ramblings and the occasional response from JARVIS, at least until the latter pipes up to inform Stark of a visitor.

 

“Sir, Captain Rogers has returned and is inquiring as to your location.”

 

“Send him up, J,” Stark murmurs. He’s got his head down, a stylus in hand, and is scribbling something on a tablet.

 

“Would you like me to inform him of Sergeant Barnes’s presence?”

 

“Huh,” Stark says, head lifting to regard James. “Your call, Barnes.”

 

“Yeah, better tell him,” James says, not wanting to surprise Steve more than necessary.

 

“Very good, sir,” JARVIS says.

 

James tries to go back to his book after that, not knowing how long it will take for Steve to arrive, but the elevator slides open no more than a couple of minutes later and from the corner of his eye he spots hurried movement as a tall, broad-shouldered figure crosses the space to the security door and slaps his hand on the entry panel. James is surprised when the door slides open for Steve. He understood that Steve trusts Stark, enough to have James come to the tower, but this tells him just how much Stark trusts Steve in return.

 

“Tony?” Steve says, striding across the workshop. He still has a light jacket on and a duffel thrown over one shoulder, clearly having come directly upon his return. “JARVIS said Bucky’s—” He stops abruptly, his gaze finally settling on James.

 

“Yup, Barnes came to visit,” Stark says, sounding a tad smug, even as he returns to his work.

 

James sets down his book, careful to mark his place, and stands. “Hey, Steve,” he says.

 

Steve gapes. “I…” His eyes track over James slowly from head to foot, leaving him feeling unaccountably warm, and he wonders if he’s blushing. He hopes not.

 

“You’re really here,” Steve manages finally. “I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I know you promised to come if—Is something wrong?” he asks, brow furrowing as he recalls the circumstances under which James had promised to come find him.

 

“I was having some trouble with my arm,” he says. “I came to see if you had any ideas how to get it fixed. Stark’s taking a look.”

 

Steve glances at Stark as if just realizing he’s working on something, and it’s obvious the moment his gaze focuses in on the subject of the scanned images. His jaw tenses and small lines appear at the corners of his eyes. “Thanks, Tony,” Steve says.

 

Stark just waves a hand. “Not a problem. And don’t thank me yet. I’ve just started, and this is some complicated tech here.”

 

“Can you fix it?” Steve asks.

 

“Fixing it’s only the tip of the ice berg. Ideally I’d like to build him something that won’t irritate the shoulder tissue the way this model does, but still allows him the same range of mobility and control, if not more.”

 

“Don’t worry about that part, Stark,” James says. “If you can get it to flex normally, I’ll be more than happy.”

 

Steve looks worried. “What does he mean by irritating your shoulder? Does it hurt?”

 

James shrugs. “I’m used to it.” And he is. It’s not severe pain; more a constant low level ache.

 

“Okay, okay. I still haven’t determined how to repair it, either, and I know that’s the priority. Why don’t you two go talk somewhere else for an hour or two. I’ll have JARVIS call you when I’ve got more to work with. Barnes, I’m going to need to get hands on at some point.” Stark shoots him a questioning look.

 

“Yeah, I know. It’s fine.”

 

Stark nods. “Good. Now get out of here. Hit the lounge. Cap, there’s a boat load of lunch leftovers if you’re interested. And don’t tell me you ate lunch, because I know you’re probably hungry again anyway.”

 

“Yeah, I could eat,” Steve admits with a reluctant looking smile. “That good with you?” he asks James.

 

“I’m still full. Stark ordered like a whole Italian restaurant.”

 

“Hey, that wasn’t even half the menu!” Stark protests.

 

James rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll come with anyway. We should talk.”

 

Steve’s smile grows a little. “You’ve been hanging out in Brooklyn all this time, haven’t you?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“No reason,” Steve says with a slight shrug. “You’re just picking up your accent again.”

 

“Am not,” James says.

 

“Are, too.”

 

“Go!” Stark tells them.

 

Steve grins and nods toward the elevator. James picks up his belongings, and follows.

 

~*~

 

TBC 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Steve talk, each walking on eggshells as they attempt to gather the information they most want, while determining the boundaries of their friendship and whether it still exists in this strange, modern era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a vague reference to a location for the deli where Bucky works in this chapter. There is actually a deli/grocery on that corner that strongly resembles what I imagine Ella's and Joseph's place to look like, but beyond that there's no true connection.

James follows Steve into the elevator and back up to the lounge level where he and Stark had been earlier. Steve heads directly for the kitchen, so he follows him there, too, watching as he leans over and rummages among the various containers in the refrigerator. He peeks into each one before dragging it out onto the counter, only reaching up into the cabinet for a plate once he’s retrieved all the leftovers. Glancing back at James, brows arching, he half lifts a second plate. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

 

“No, really, I ate plenty.”

 

Steve’s expression tightens ever so slightly, but he nods and puts the plate back, then goes ahead and loads up his own. He tugs open a drawer and pulls out a roll of plastic wrap, covers the dish and shoves it into the microwave. James notes absently that Steve must be spending a fair amount of time in Stark’s tower – or at least his kitchen – if he knows where everything is.

 

They stand silently as the microwave whirs, leaning back against opposite counters. Steve had dropped his bag off in the hall by the elevator, but James still has his over one shoulder. Noticing, Steve nods at it. “You can put that down, you know.”

 

He shrugs. “Not heavy. Just water and a book, my jacket.”

 

A smile ghosts Steve’s face. “You always liked to read,” he says. “Always found the best books, with all the action.”

 

“Still do.” He lets his bag drop and hang from his elbow so he can reach in and pull out _The Lord of the Rings_. “Stark said they made this one into movies,” he says, holding it up.

 

Steve nods. “Yeah. I haven’t seen them yet but they’re supposed to be really good. I’ve got the DVDs but Tony said we should do a movie night here. Apparently he’s got a screen that comes down from the ceiling, even bigger than his TV. Not quite the same as a real theater, but it sounds pretty impressive. Maybe you can stick around,” he adds, hesitant, “or, I don’t know, come by for it.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

The microwave goes off and Steve grabs a dishtowel to take out his food. James follows him back out into the main room and over to the table, sitting down across from where Steve settles to eat. But Steve just stares at his meal, poking at the lasagna a bit with his fork, watching the steam rise.

 

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Reading?” he asks.

 

James hums under his breath. “Yeah. Mostly newspapers and the internet, though, not books. At least not novels. Been spending most of my days at the library, trying to… catch up, I suppose. They’d tell me stuff when they pulled me for a mission but just what I needed to know, so there’s a lot missing. Politics, science, culture, all of it.”

 

“Yeah, I get that,” Steve says, glancing over at him. “It took a little time for me to wrap my head around it being the twenty-first century, after they pulled me out of the ice, but even now—it’s been two years and I still feel like there are huge gaps. So much has changed.”

 

“Even when I think I’ve got something figured out, I’ll trip over some new fact and realize I’m still out of date. Like 9/11,” James says, frowning. “I know I saw the World Trade Center at some point. Not up close or anything, but sticking up as part of the skyline from somewhere more uptown, you know? The image registered. It stuck with me. Then I read terrorists flew planes into them and they’re gone.”

 

“They were the tallest buildings in the world for a long time,” Steve says. “Would have been cool to go up to the top of them.”

 

“Like going to the top of the Empire State Building,” James says.

 

“You remember that?”

 

“Yeah, sure. We barely ever came into Manhattan. That was a big deal. Thought we were on top of the world.”

 

“I couldn’t believe your parents invited me along,” Steve says.

 

James considers telling Steve that it had been his idea, that he whined to his parents until they relented, and they only did because he’d offered to give them the money he’d earned selling newspapers on the corner all summer long to pay for Steve’s admission, though he knows enough to leave that part off. But he doesn’t say any of it. He’s certain of the memory, but not so certain how Steve would take the information, even now.

 

“Wouldn’t have been as much fun without you,” he says instead, and knows it was the right response when Steve’s cheeks turn faintly pink and he starts eating with a little more enthusiasm.

 

“So,” Steve says eventually, and James has a feeling he knows where he’s going. “It seems like you’ve been remembering some things.”

 

It’s a question, even if it’s not phrased as such. “Yeah, I have been.”

 

“Things from before the war?”

 

“Some of it. Some of it more recent. Took a while to start putting things in the right time period. Not always obvious with the Soldier stuff. But I’ve got a notebook and I write it all down so I can figure it out later if I don’t know right away.” He hopes Steve doesn’t push for details, especially not about the Winter Soldier’s memories.

 

But Steve just nods, then glances at his small bag, lying next to him on the table. “You don’t have much with you. Does that mean you’ve found somewhere safe to stay?” He rushes on before James can respond. “I’m not trying to pry, and you don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not, it’s just… I’ve been worried.”

 

While James has no problem giving Steve details, he feels the need to make something clear. “I can take care of myself,” he says. “I get why you’d be concerned, but you need to remember who I am, what I’ve done. I know how to go underground, and I know how to protect myself.”

 

Steve lets out a long, shaky sigh. “I understand. I do know all that. But it’s not just about Hydra. I came back from the dead, too, remember? And I had SHIELD to cut through all the red tape and recreate my life, to give me I.D. and a job and set up a bank account and whatever, and it was still weird and difficult. I just… I don’t know how you’re managing it on your own, that’s all.”

 

“Well, I don’t have I.D. or a bank account,” James tells him. “But I’m not sleeping on the streets anymore, either, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

James relents. “When I first got over to Brooklyn, I walked around a while, scoped out an empty building for sale, snuck in through the roof and slept there nights. Then I met this older couple with a deli, got to know them a little getting lunch there every day. The husband hurt his arm, so they offered me a room upstairs from the shop in exchange for helping to unload deliveries in the morning, stocking the place up at close. They give me a little cash, too, and a discount on lunch, but mostly it’s the room. Has a bed, a bathroom, microwave and little refrigerator, separate entrance. I think it’s too much for what I do, but they say they couldn’t rent it legally, so.” He shrugs, feeling self-conscious. He’s not used to speaking this much. It’s easier with Steve, for reasons he’d prefer not to examine, but it’s still awkward.

 

But Steve only appears slightly mollified. “Are you being careful? I mean, it’s terrific that you’ve made friends with these people but if Hydra comes looking for you…”

 

“You think I want someone to hurt them? Of course I’m careful. And it’s temporary, anyway. They say I can stay as long as I need, but as soon as Joseph’s arm heals I know I have to move on.”

 

“Joseph?”

 

“Yeah, Joseph and Ella Gaspar, they own the deli.”

 

Steve sits up a little straighter. “On Myrtle Avenue? Near the park?”

 

James frowns. “Yeah. At Adelphi. I thought it seemed familiar, and they said Joseph’s grandfather used to own it.”

 

“Laszlo, I think, if it’s the same place. It was called Gaspar’s back then, so it must be.”

 

“Just called Corner Deli and Package Store now.” He rubs at his temples before letting his hand drop. “I don’t really remember it. More of a feeling. But that’s how it’s been for the most part with Brooklyn. Don’t remember living there exactly, but I still know where some things are, how to get around.”

 

“A lot looks different,” Steve agrees, “but some of the old landmarks are intact. I’ve only been once, just to visit the old neighborhood. It was kind of depressing, but then that was before I found out you, well, you know.”

 

“Came back from the dead, too?”

 

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “I suppose so. Lot of ghosts.” He eats a little more, watching James as he does. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

 

“Stark didn’t believe me, either, when I didn’t want seconds. I know I probably lost a few pounds at the start of all this, but I’m eating pretty regular now. And I’m not sure that whatever they did to me worked exactly the way it did for you, with the super fast metabolism and being hungry all the time like you were in the war.” He eyes Steve’s empty plate. “And now, too, I guess.”

 

“You remember how it was during the war?” Steve asks.

 

James shrugs and looks away. “Some of it. And back when we were kids, too. Not just the thing with the Empire State Building, but a bunch of stuff.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I don’t know. Kid stuff.”

 

“Buck, come on. I promised I wouldn’t feed you memories or push, but I can’t help… You seem so different than you did a few weeks ago.”

 

“More like him,” James fills in. “More like Bucky Barnes.”

 

Steve sighs. “I meant what I said. I understand that you can’t be the same, that too much has happened to go back to the way things were, but… that doesn’t make you any less Bucky Barnes.”

 

James stands up and wanders across the living area to the windows. The view doesn’t seem to bother him the way it did earlier. But then a lot of things are different when he knows Steve has his back.

 

Sure enough, Steve follows, keeping a slight distance between them but obviously determined to keep the conversation going. He’s not going to let the subject drop.

 

“I remember reading to you when you were sick,” he says finally. “Adventure stories, like you said. I bought an old copy of _Treasure Island_ , because I remembered that you’d liked it.”

 

“I liked all the books you read to me,” Steve says.

 

James shrugs a little. He looks down, pressing his forehead against the glass. He’s tempted to exhale and fog the window, maybe write something silly. But despite the memories he’s tapping, he’s not a child. Hasn’t been for more than eighty years.

 

“I remember you drawing things. Whatever caught your eye. Piece of fruit, an old chair, my tin soldiers.” He smirks. “The way Marjorie Thompson’s socks used to slide down to her ankles and kind of sit there, all wrinkly above those strappy shoes she always wore to school.”

 

That startles a laugh out of Steve. “Marjorie Thompson. I haven’t though of her in forever.”

 

James shrugs. “She ran off with Ed Deluca before we graduated. Probably a fat great-grandma retired to Florida by now.”

 

“I can’t believe you remember that of all things,” Steve says, and something catches in his voice, making James turn to see his expression, but his face is unreadable.

 

“Why?” he presses. “Told you my memories were random.”

 

“I know,” Steve says. “It’s just not the sort of thing I’d expect someone to remember at all, even without having their memories tampered with.”

 

James nods slowly. As far as answers go, it sounds pretty reasonable, but Steve was never much of a liar, and it’s pretty clear that hasn’t changed. “How about we sit down?” he says, instead of pushing further.

 

They head over to one of the cushy sofas and sit, side by side with most of a cushion between them. “What else do you remember?” Steve asks, tucking one leg up under himself.

 

James chews at his bottom lip, trying to decide what to say. He’s actually got a lot of his memories. There’s no way he can determine if it’s all of them, or which may be inaccurate, though he has some suspicions, but there are still so many to choose from, and after that last one he kind of wants to pick something that might force Steve to reveal whatever is bothering him.

 

“I remember your mom’s funeral,” he finally says quietly. “You ditching me and my folks to go off on your own.”

 

To his surprise, Steve’s face loses some of the tension it had built up over the last few minutes. “You found me, though.”

 

“That was what you meant that day on the helicarrier,” James says, glancing down at where his metal hand is gripping the edge of the couch. “You were repeating what I said to you back then, about being with me to the end of the line.”

 

“Yeah. That was what you told me. That just because I _could_ go it alone, didn’t mean I _had to_.”

 

James nods and looks away.

 

“It’s still true,” Steve says. “I’m here for you, whatever you need. And I understand what you’ve been doing, and it’s clearly working because you seem so much more sure of yourself, but… you’re not alone, Bucky. Just remember that, okay?”

 

“Okay.” He takes a breath, thinking that hadn’t gone quite the way he anticipated, and lets it out. “You know, my bed now is this weird couch thing. Like a couch frame with a folded mattress, but if you change the frame it flattens to a bed.”

 

“A futon?”

 

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, the first night I couldn’t figure it out, how to make it flat, so I pulled the mattress off and just laid it out on the floor, and suddenly I thought of how we used to do that at my parents’ place. Take the cushions off the couch to make a bed on the floor next to mine.”

 

“We did it that night, after my mom died.”

 

“Only…” And here James stops because he doesn’t know if this memory is real, this vivid picture of lying on those couch cushions, pressed up against Steve, holding him all night while he slept fitfully. He has several similar ones, half-dreamlike, where he and Steve are so close that he can’t believe they’re true. Because he knows he dated dames back before the war, and that Steve had a thing for Peggy Carter when they were in Europe, and none of these memories make any sense in light of those facts.

 

“Only what?” Steve asks.

 

James shrugs. “Nothing. It’s a little fuzzy, that’s all. A lot of it still is. I don’t always get the whole picture, you know?”

 

Steve sighs. “I know.”

 

~*~

 

TBC 


End file.
